


Another Kind Of Pain

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Implied Thramsay, M/M, incestuous fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay knows he should be angry at his father for playing with his toys, but things are a little more complicated than that.</p>
<p>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Kind Of Pain

Ramsay licks his lips, but his tongue feels parched, his throat hot. Fumbling, his hands find a mug, guide it to his mouth, and he swallows greedily, but the wine is heavy and sweet and does not quite quench his thirst. Nothing will. At least nothing that can be poured into a cup and consumed. It is the feeling that consumes _him,_ rather, gripping him at the very core. He knows he should be angry, furious even, and a part of him is, but he stores his rage and his lust in the same ominous place in his stomach. Both are waves of heat that radiate through his body, his body that is tense with longing and frustration as he drinks in the scene playing out in front of him, his pale eyes noting every twitching muscle, every ripple of skin. The air is alive with the sound of fucking, skin slapping against skin.  
  
He cannot not help but stare at the point where their bodies join, flesh on flesh, sliding slickly back and forth, stretching, almost melting. Roose makes no sound; only the faintest shimmer of sweat upon his skin showing he is not in fact numb to all of this. Perhaps his breath comes a little faster, but Ramsay can barely tell over the sound of his own, moist, shuddering gasps at the back of his throat. The pulse races in his ears, and he can feel it behind his eyes, hammering, almost dimming his vision.  
  
The look on Reek’s face is one he has never seen before. Not on him, not on Theon when he still fought his way to the surface every now and then, not on anyone. There is pain, yes, betrayed by the crease of his brow that deepens with every thrust, obvious in the way his nostrils flare, his breathing ragged and uneven. Ramsay feels his every fibre twitch with impatience, wishing there was more, more pain, more sound, the voice of his sweet pet pleading for mercy, the mere thought of it enough to make his cock strain painfully against his breeches. There is something else though, another kind of agony. It is more subtle than the usual grimace, another flavour entirely, and however hard he tries, Ramsay cannot put his finger on it. It outrages him, some silent secret his father keeps to himself, keeping it from him. For a moment he grinds his teeth, wishing _he’d_ thought of having him on his back, wishing he’d been the first to see his face as he was being fucked, the first and the only. _Reek belongs to Ramsay, and Ramsay belongs to Reek._  
  
Reek lets out a broken moan then, his eyelids glistening with tears and sweat as they close, and his entire face seems to quiver with the force of whatever feeling has taken a hold of his emaciated frame. There is no telling for sure with all the jerking and pulling, trembling and twisting of his limbs, but for a moment it seems like he is spreading his legs a little further, either because his mind or his body wills it, inviting Roose to thrust even deeper.  
“Whore,” Ramsay mutters under his breath, though there is no true edge to the word, another sound of pleasure rather than an insult.

His eyes wander from the empty space occupied by the scar he has given Reek to his father’s hands, their grip on his thighs firm but steady, leaving no marks, never readjusting, never faltering. His gaze crosses from his arms to his chest, down the smooth fabric of his doublet to where it ends in a silver trim, down the line of sparse dark hair on pallid skin, until it finds his length again, the rhythm perfect and smooth as dance. His legs almost buckle with a sudden surge of pleasure then, blood shooting toward his middle as he watches, and consumes, and for a breathless moment finds himself imagining it was him. Not him using Reek, he’s done that many times over, and though it will never cease to please him this is different. He tries to imagine the heat of him, his girth, knowing from some place deep inside of him it would _hurt,_ but the thought only fans his fire. He has seen Reek squirm, has heard him cry out, has felt his skin stretch and spasm in protest, and yet …  
  
The sound is barely a gasp. Ramsay’s eyes flick upwards, just in time to see his father’s mouth open, his bloodless lips parting for the duration of a heartbeat, glistening in the firelight. Finally, finally, Roose shifts his angle, gripping Reek’s legs just below the knees as he leans forward and further into him, increasing his pressure, increasing his pace, increasing the pain he inflicts.   
  
Reek’s cry mingles with an urgent moan as he tries too late to cover his mouth, something almost akin to pleasure only far more terrible, and Ramsay’s body throbs in places he hadn’t considered before. He finds himself hating his creature in that moment, knowing his father would never lay hand on him like this, knowing he would not, could not let him even if he tried, knowing this was something reserved for the likes of Reek, something he would never take from him.  
“ _Whore,_ ” he breathes again, but this time there is anger in the word.  
  
Just when rage is about to drown out his lust, a tremor passes through the starved body on the table. Reek arches his back, his sunken chest rising and falling rapidly as he begins to sob through his moans, and heavy tears run freely from his eyes and down his temples, vanishing in his dishevelled hair. Roose’s eyes are lidded now, a faint glimmer behind pale lashes. The breath catches in Ramsay’s throat when he meets their gaze, and they are looking at him, fixed on him as his father moves, his face calm even as his rhythm falls apart, his final thrusts hard and erratic.  
  
Ramsay curses, thinking too late to pull himself out, and so he stains the front of his breeches, spilling himself in time with his father. But it is Reek’s moan that unites them in their release, obscenely loud as it rings through the small chamber, and in its helpless wretchedness it wordlessly expresses all the things that will never be said between them.


End file.
